So you went.
The baby shower was simple, held in your aunt’s garden with pastel balloons and homemade food. No hacienda. No social climbing. No seating chart designed like a battlefield.
Camila wore a yellow dress and her silver shoes.
When she walked in, people smiled warmly.
Not because she was performing.
Because they were happy to see her.
Your father was there, standing near the drink table. He saw Camila and froze. He did not rush her. He did not demand a hug. He simply lifted one hand gently.
Camila looked at you.
You nodded once.
She walked toward him slowly.
He crouched.
You saw him say something.
Later, Camila told you what it was.
“I’m sorry I didn’t protect your walk.”
She said she told him, “I walked in the park.”
He cried.
She patted his shoulder awkwardly because children are both merciful and savage.
That was the beginning of her forgiving him.
Not yours.
Hers.
Your mother did not come.
But she sent a handwritten card through your aunt.
